


Moats And Boats And Waterfalls

by starsandgutters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ACTUAL TEETH-ROTTING FLUFF, AU, Fluff, Futurefic, M/M, Team Free Will, alternate POV, and idiots who love each other without actually saying 'I love you', post-season 8, season 9 never happened fight me, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:44:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to a Tumblr prompt from <a href="ethicalmadness.tumblr.com">Yasmine</a>:</p><p>  <b>"AU - s9 never happened, Dean and Cas retire together, open a diner (and Dean insists on having twenty types of pie), and live happily ever after while scarring Sam for life in the meantime with their coupley stuff."</b></p><p>She asked for cheese, and cheese I delivered. Actually, I took the chance to insert all my happy headcanons too. Sam has a dog, okay. I didn't mention it, but Sam HAS A DOG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moats And Boats And Waterfalls

**Author's Note:**

> There are neither moats nor boats in this fic, actually. It doesn't even have waterfalls. But that's one of my favourite lines from "[Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rjFaenf1T-Y)" by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros, a song I was first introduced to by the lovely person who requested this fic.  
> Not only does it have a very fitting sound, but also some very relevant lines:
> 
> _Man, oh, man, you're my best friend,_   
>  _I scream it to the nothingness:_   
>  _There ain't nothing that I need._
> 
> _Well, hot and heavy, pumpkin pie,_   
>  _Chocolate candy, Jesus Christ--_   
>  _Ain't nothing please me more than you._

* * *

 

In retrospect, Dean supposed he only had himself to blame. He had been the one to plant the idea in Cas’s mind, after all, way back then, when Cas was still trying to escape Heaven and all the crap that had gone down there.

“So, what now? Move to Vermont? Open up a charming B&B?”

It had seemed like such a harmless joke to make. And yeah, he was aware that Cas hadn’t exactly _got_ that it was a joke ‒ Cas had never done all that well with sarcasm ‒ but Dean hadn’t exactly expected him to seriously take it into consideration, either.

And at the time, he hadn’t-- or so Dean had thought, Castiel seemingly more excited at the prospect of becoming a hunter (which had gone just about as well as could be imagined, really. Dean was never letting him watch procedural cop shows again). After that, things had gone south very quickly, with Naomi’s crazy mind control leading Castiel into all kinds of messed-up shit, Sam undergoing the Trials to shut down Hell, and Metatron jumping in with his own boatload of insane crap and his plan to cast the angels down to Earth. It had been _bad_ , and Dean hadn’t been entirely sure that they would come out on top of that one. Letting Sam go through with the third Trial had been one of the hardest thing he’d ever done, but Sam had been adamant, burning with purpose. Sam had looked him in the eye and said that if Dean wasn’t going to let him do this, this _one thing_ , finish what he’d started, then Sam would just find another way to off himself.

 _This isn’t_ living, _Dean,_ he’d said, and Dean sometimes still hears his desperate voice ringing in his ears at night, like he’s still in that church. _I’m not gonna do this anymore-- constantly being terrified that the people we saved are gonna die; never being safe ourselves. I’m shutting down Hell, live or die-- and if you respect me the tiniest little bit, Dean, you’re going to fucking_ let _me._

So Dean, God help him, had fucking let him. Because Sam was right: at some point, Dean had to accept that he wasn’t Sammy anymore; he wasn’t the too-quiet toddler that would come crying to Dean when he’d skinned his knees. He was a grown man, a hunter, a survivor, and if the Trials didn’t kill him, then something else would at some point, and Dean would have to live with it anyway. So for the first time in his entire life… Dean _let go._

Of course, as usual, he had given his little brother far too little credit, and he’d never been happier to be wrong in his life, because the overgrown son of a bitch _had actually_ _pulled through._ It had been a close shot, entirely _too_ close. Naomi had not been wrong when she’d said God’s original plan for the Trials was an ultimate sacrifice; except, as it turned out, God was a fan of flexibility. Sacrifice _was_ essential to completing the trials, but Sam’s willingness to die for the greater good ‒ and perhaps more crucially, Dean’s final decision to support his plan, accepting to face the world alone and give up the little brother he’d always valued beyond anything or anyone else ‒ had been sacrifice enough. They’d _done_ it. Hell was closed for business, and all those black-eyed sonsabitches weren’t coming out anytime soon.

Locking up Heaven hadn’t exactly been a cakewalk, either. Mere days after almost losing Sam, Dean had almost lost Cas too, _twice_ : first when he’d put his life on the line to stop Metatron, and later, when it looked as if Cas was going to go back inside the pearly gates for good.

But then.

But then Cas had _stayed._

He had _stayed_ and Dean wasn’t sure how to deal with it, had been entirely unprepared for the possibility. If there was one thing he had always known with bitter certainty, it was that Cas always, _always_ left in the end. It wasn’t his fault, and he always had the best intentions, but he still _left._ Except that this time he hadn’t. He was very much _there_ , and very much human, too.

Dean didn’t have the first clue how to cope with beating the Big Bads and having both his brother and his best friend _alive--_ and his soul not earmarked for Hell in exchange. But fuck if he wasn’t more than willing to learn.

Still, for all that - and maybe _because_ of all that - he hadn’t seen it coming at all when Castiel came up to him in the bunker one morning, all baggy hoodie and intense blue eyes, and cornered him in the kitchen.

“I have found several establishments for rent in Vermont. They’re reasonably priced. They all look like they need a fair deal of reconstruction work, but you’re handy with tools, and I could always learn.”

Dean had looked up from his coffee, blinking blearily. If this was an elaborate joke, 8AM was far too early to pull it.

“Why are you going to _Vermont,_ Cas? Have you ever even _been_ there before?”

Cue Cas’s trademark Headtilt of Confusion. “ _I’m_ not going to Vermont, _we_ are.”

“No, we’re _really_ not. How did you even come up with this idea? No more Chinese food for you late at night.”

Now Castiel was just starting to look annoyed. “Is there any reason in particular that you wish to stay here? With Heaven and Hell closed off, we can go on hunts basically from anywhere. And as for the knowledge in this bunker, Sam is far more suited than you to archiving tasks.”

“Wow. Thanks, Cas.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dean had to fight hard not to indulge the powerful eyeroll that Castiel’s deadpanning always induced. Something didn’t quite seem right. It wasn’t the first time, since falling, that Cas had come up with odd plans, but Dean was extremely perplexed as to why he seemed to think Dean was on the same page as him with this one.

“Look, it’s early, I haven’t had any bacon yet, and we only defeated Crowley and Metatron like, a month ago. I think we all deserve some time off, and I sure as hell ain’t up for guessing games. You wanna tell me exactly why you’re looking at real estate in friggin’ _Vermont?”_

Castiel’s annoyance was dispelling, but something else was slowly creeping into his face to replace it, something that looked like understanding, and, alarmingly, _disappointment._ It was the expression of someone who’s just starting to realise they may have committed a huge miscalculation.

“Because of what you said. That time when we worked that case together, with the… _looney_ criminal. You were talking about what I’d like to do if I… _retired,_ so to speak, and you suggested I open a bed and breakfast in Vermont. I simply assumed that would have been your preferred option.”

Slow blink. There _definitely_ wasn’t enough coffee in the world for this. Dean had to thread the thin, dangerously blurred line between snapping Cas back to the real world and hurting his feelings like the most egregious dickbag. Shit, he wasn’t paid enough for this crap. Actually, he wasn’t paid _at all._ He cleared his throat, fingertips tapping a nervous beat against his rapidly cooling mug.

“Cas, um. You know that I… that was a joke. I was just joking. You know that, right?”

“I’m… beginning to realize that, yeah.” Oh God, now it was _definitely_ disappointment. “I don’t understand. It seems like an oddly specific joke to make. Why Vermont? Why a bed and breakfast?”

“Um. Well, lots of people ‒ you know, _normal_ people with boring 9-to-5 jobs who’ve never hunted down the supernatural ‒ open up something like that when they retire.” Dean shrugged, hoping it was gonna be left at that.

He should only be so lucky.

“But why _Vermont_?”

He sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Because. Um, because Vermont is, like…” Dean cleared his throat again, feeling an embarrassed flush starting to creep over his face and the back of his neck. “Um, a lot of dudes go there. To, uh, live. And open up stuff. Like, dudes and other dudes. Like gay couples.”

The look Castiel gave him at that made Dean regret sorely all the times he’d made fun of Cas’s cluelessness. He would have liked very much for Cas to be clueless right now, but the laser blue stare pinning him down was everything but.

“What?” Dean was painfully aware of his extensive blushing.

“I don’t know, Dean. You tell me. I know you were joking, but I wouldn’t mind opening a bed and breakfast with you.” There was a pause, too long and significant to be anything but deliberate. “In Vermont.”

And, okay, at this point, Dean could have played dumb. Really, a big part of him ‒ that kinda cowardly, immature part he was often ashamed of ‒ would have liked to, very much. It would have been so easy to brush this off as nothing, as Cas being _Cas_ and coming up with weird plans and not understanding how human society and innuendos worked.

Except… it wasn’t really all that easy, was it? Not with Castiel looking at him with that steady warmth in his eyes, a thinly veiled challenge underneath. Not after Metatron had fessed up to the fact that the last ingredient, the final element he’d needed for his spell, had been the grace of an angel in love with a human. Not after Cas had given up Heaven, his powers, his brethren and _freaking immortality_ to stay behind with them. With _him._

Even for someone as emotionally constipated as Dean, it was kind of impossible to ignore the signs. They were less like signs and more like giant flashing neon billboards, really, and Castiel ‒ the stupidly brave bastard ‒ was still looking at him, not pulling back at all, hiding nothing.

Four years, countless battes, several deaths, and a truckload of confusing feelings down the road-- and it had all come down to Dean. It was his move, and whatever he said next could make them or break them. Dean was dimly aware of his knuckles gone white around his coffee. All he could really think about was how suddenly hard it was to breathe. 

Finally, _finally,_ he managed to make himself react, a shivering exhale punched out of him as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Sonofabitch,” he muttered.

Castiel’s mouth tilted into a small smile, and it both filled Dean with rushing, bubbling warmth and made him roll his eyes in annoyance.

“We are _not_ going all the way up to Vermont. I don’t want anything to do with that place.” He grumbled, pointing a vehement finger at Castiel.

Cas shrugged. “I can be flexible on location.”

Suddenly, for reasons he didn’t want to contemplate, the word _flexible_ in Cas’s mouth was making Dean’s flush all the worse. He elected to cover that up with more bitching.

“I’m also not cleaning anyone’s shit for them, okay? Especially not stuck-up tourists in hippie clothing who don’t understand the point of having devil’s traps in all the rooms. Now, food-- food I can do. Food is simple. You ask me to arrange chocolates on pillows, we got a problem. Get it?”

Castiel, entirely unbothered by Dean’s increasingly flustered complaints, simply smiled wider. “Yes, Dean. I get it. No chocolates on pillows.”

Seriously, what a smarmy son of a bitch.

“Except for yours maybe. Or mine. I would like to have chocolates on my pillow.”

What a smarmy, _suggestive_ son of a bitch. Dean hid behind his mug, grumbling, making a face when he sipped cold coffee.

“This better not be just a passing fad, Cas.” he groused, glaring daggers at the offending beverage, and what he hoped he was conveying was _I’m not buying a fucking establishment only for you to decide you’d rather be a professional bungee-jumper,_ but what he meant, and hoped Castiel wouldn’t pick up on, was _don’t make me build a home with you if you’re only going to leave again._

He winced when he felt warm fingers touching the hand he’d rested on the table.

“I’m quite certain it’s not a passing fad.”

And yes, _even_ to someone as emotionally stunted as Dean, it was more than clear that Castiel wasn’t talking about their future business ventures.

When he looked up to finally meet Cas’s eyes, they were both smiling.

 

* * *

  **1 year later**

* * *

 

It’s not a long drive from the bunker to the diner, and Sam makes it gladly, the windows rolled down in the warm March breeze.

The place hasn’t been open long, but it’s already a success with most of the people in the area, Kansas folks and travellers alike. Honestly, Sam’s impressed: he knew Dean was good at cooking ‒ that first burger had been _life-changing_ ‒ but he hadn’t expected him to be… _this_ good. Like, _business_ good. And yet, facts speak for themselves, and Sam couldn’t be happier.

When they’d first brought up the idea with him ‒ Castiel earnestly excited, and his idiot of a brother flustered and aggressively embarrassed ‒ he’d been convinced they were trying to prank him, or were under a spell, or had just hit their heads very hard. Turns out, they hadn’t. They were actually, _actually,_ planning a future together, and the biggest obstacle genuinely seemed to be their near-constant bickering about what _kind_ of enterprise they should be running. Castiel was still enamored with the bed and breakfast idea, Dean had tried to push for a drive-in-plus-fast-food arrangement, and it was only after a lot of arguing, making up, and ‒ Sam suspected with an edge of terror ‒ really intense making out that they had settled on the idea of an old-style diner.

Sam pulls into the parking lot, unsurprised to see there are several cars there already, and the place looks quite crowded from what he can see through the windows. He gets out of the car and leans against it for a few moments, taking in the establishment his brother and Cas have all but built from the ground up, the sign proudly reading _Winchester’s Roadhouse._ It had been Dean’s first idea for a name, that they should pay homage to Ellen, Jo and Ash’s memory, and when he’d brought it up quietly, neither Castiel nor Sam had made any alternative suggestions.

(The emphasis on ‘Winchester’ might have seemed one-sided, if Sam didn’t know all too well that Castiel had taken his brother’s surname only a few months after falling. He’d been tentative in asking, but really, Dean and Sam had both been surprised by how _natural_ it had seemed that he should share their surname. Cas was more family than most of their _actual_ family had ever been.)

He can hear the faint strains of rock music playing, and a blackboard sign by the door reads in bold chalk letters ‘ _Live free or pie hard’._ Sam rolls his eyes and groans, even if there’s no one to hear it, then walks through the door.

People are sitting in the booths, chatting merrily and chomping away, unbothered by _Ramble On_ playing in the background. Castiel looks up from the till, where he’s looking at a receipt pensively with a pen tucked behind his ear, and smiles brightly when he sees Sam.

“Sam!” Before Sam can even respond, he’s being hugged enthusiastically by-- shit, his _brother-in-law,_  he supposes, even though there’s nothing remotely official between Dean and Cas, and it’s still weird to think of Castiel as anything other than _Cas._ Not that it really matters, anyway. Sam started thinking of Cas as a brother long before his _actual_ brother decided to man up, get his head out of his ass, and admit to being stupid smitten with the guy.

“Hey, Cas. Busy day?”

“No more than usual. Though, yes, we are falling a little behind, because instead of working on the usual orders, _Dean has decided to try baking yet_ another _kind of pie._ ” The last half of that sentence is said at a significantly higher volume as Cas tilts his head towards the kitchen, and sure enough, a familiar voice barks back a “ _Bite me,_ Cas, pie takes precedence and you _know_ that!”.

Cas rolls his eyes. “Whatever. He’ll be out of there soon enough, Sam. I’m going to check on the bees. As long as Dean remembers that _it’s rude to make people wait.”_

“Wow, you’re an actual _douchebag_. You’re lucky that you’re easy on the eyes.”

So, okay, yeah. They don’t really need a legal licence to act like they’ve been married for years.

Sam is distracted by that unsettling line of thought when Dean comes out of the kitchen doors, flour on his right elbow and a bright grin on his face. “Hiya, Sammy!”

The hug is both shorter and more familiar than the one Sam exchanged with Cas, but it warms him up regardless. It’s still hard for him to wrap his head around the fact that after all the crap ‒ after Hell, after the Apocalypse, after everything else their shitty lives had thrown at them ‒ they’re both still _here._ They’re alive and kicking, they still have a few friends in this world, and his brother… his brother is _happy._ And Sam, God help him, is starting to get there too.

It’s a good feeling.

“Sit down, Sammy. I’m taking a break-- I’m gonna sweat my _skin_ out if I stay in there five minutes longer. Oh, and you gotta try this new pie I’ve baked, it’s freaking _awesome._ ”

Sam sits down at the booth with him, trying to tuck his too-long legs under the table comfortably. “What’s in it?” He’s not as big a fan of pie as Dean is, but it’s always fun to see his brother get so genuinely _excited_ about something.

“Pumpkin, nutmeg, ginger, apples and carrots. Yeah, _carrots,_ I know, don’t say anything. Cas has been on my ass about clogged arteries and healthy eating lately. I swear it’s like living with you all over again.”

Sam wants to object that, unlike Cas, he’s had _nothing_ to do with Dean’s ass, then he realizes that he just scarred himself with that thought and gives a pained cough.

“So, you heard from Charlie?”

“Yeah, she’s actually gonna come over next week with her girlfriend. I think she might be serious about this one, because she wouldn’t stop babbling over the phone and making even more Star Trek references than usual.” They exchange a knowing smirk.

“I think she might actually stop at the bunker after, so you should probably make sure she can reach your phone if you’re having her over. Speaking of which…” Dean slaps him on the forearm with a shit-eating grin. “How’s our dear Sheriff Mills?”

Sam ducks his head, but can’t help smiling. “She’s _fine_ , you jackass. I visited her last week. I told you we’re keeping this casual for now.”

“No, _you_ told me that you were gonna ask her to move in.”

“Yeah, well, I did. Sort of. More like hinted at it. She said she’s gonna have to think about it. She has a job and a life there, Dean. It would definitely have made more sense for me to move over there if it wasn’t for the bunker and our whole legacy thing.”

“But…?” Dean’s smile is still teasing, but gentle, and Sam can’t help his own smile growing bigger.

“But she didn’t say no, either.”

“Awesome!” Dean slaps his shoulder again, enthusiastically, and then he spots Cas coming in from the back. “Hey, Cas! Can you bring over beers?”

Cas frowns and narrows his eyes at him, but Sam can tell it’s good-natured. “I’m not your waiter, Dean.”

Dean raises his hands defensively, his grin never receding. “You wait on the tables. I’m sitting at a table right now. That kinda makes you my waiter.”

Cas just looks heavenward with an exasperated sigh. “What beer would you like, _Sam?”_

“Um, just whatever you guys have in stock, I don’t mind.” he chuckles.

Cas nods. “Two iced beers and a lukewarm one for the cook with a pie fetish, got it.” He pretends to take note of it on his pad, and Dean sticks his tongue out at him.

Sam tries really hard not to roll his eyes again, but it’s very difficult. This is like being forced to withstand Dean’s teenage hookups all over again, except this time it’s 100% more permanent and like, 200% sappier.

They’ve fallen back into easy conversation again ‒ something about Krissy and her gang taking out a clan of werewolves ‒ by the time Cas comes back with three cold ones, sliding easily in the booth next to Dean.

Sam thanks him, and Dean ‒ because clearly his brother has never learned the value of self-preservation ‒ teasingly comments “Took you long enough.”

Cas just fixes him with a laser glare, face inching closer to his in a focused, intent way that makes Sam kinda uncomfortable. He’d kinda hoped they’d stop with the eye sex once they started having _actual_ sex, but apparently he can’t have nice things.

“You should show me some respect,” Cas murmurs, rough and sort of threatening, and Sam gets the inexplicable sense that this must somehow be an inside joke between them, because Dean’s eyes light up in recognition, then in interest, then in _arousal_ and--

\--oh God, they’re actually making out in front of him.

For the millionth time in his life as Dean’s little brother, Sam coughs. Loudly.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean says, without sounding sorry at all, actually _smacking_ his kiss-reddened lips and just _why._

“God, you’re such a _jerk._ ”

“Suck it up, bitch.”

“ _Dean._ ” Castiel scolds, looking marginally more contrite, but the genuinely apologetic look he sends Sam’s way is undermined by the fact that they’re now _clearly holding hands under the table,_ and God, this is _exactly_ like being a teenager all over again.

“You two are gross,” he declares, raising his beer in a toast, and even though Dean kicks him in the shin, they still all clink their bottles together.

After that, they fall back into the comfortable, mindless kind of catching up that leaves Sam free to take everything in: the mouth-watering smell of home-made food, Zep still playing at a low volume as Dean drums his fingers along on the table, the absent way Cas plays with a ring Sam’s never seen before but that looks suspiciously like the one Dean is wearing; it makes him think of Jody and what kind of ring she might like, his heart skittering at the idea. He smiles, listening to Cas talk excitedly about his bees and how their honey goes into most of the pies Dean bakes, and _have you tried the new one? it’s so_ good _, Dean has an astounding knack for creating things,_ and the warmth in Dean’s eyes as he takes in the praise, his gaze flickering to Cas’s lips as he speaks, leaning into him without even being conscious that he does so, even if Cas just leans right back into him too, and yeah, they’re gross. But they’re _happy,_ and that makes Sam happy too.

For someone who’s never really had a family and a home, he thinks as he swallows another spoonful of pie (and God, if it isn’t _fucking glorious_ ), the three of them could be doing much, _much_ worse.


End file.
